Forgotten
by IfLooksCouldCure
Summary: Daryl Dixon is having weird dreams about himself as an Irishman, most of the dreams include another Irishman. Hershel thinks it could have a link to Daryl's mysterious past, but how can they figure out these dreams when Daryl doesn't have a clue what's going on. Answers soon turn up in the form of a man called Connor MacManus, the man from Daryl's dreams. M. Language.
1. Chapter 1

**Dreams aren't necessarily in chronological order.**

Daryl lay on his back staring at the ceiling. He could hear the rain pounding furiously off the roof, a storm raging outside. It was a pleasant break from the harsh sunlight and blistering heat, but the racket was stopping him from sleeping. He would have thought that the prison would have been more insulated from the sound, but ever since the walkers had first started roaming, the quietest of whispers were amplified. On the plus side the ground would be softer in the morning and Hershel had mentioned turning over a patch of grass to plant some of the seeds that Maggie and Glenn had picked up for him on their last run. Before he knew it, Daryl managed to slip into a fitful sleep.

_He was standing in a room, it was full of dead people, he could feel himself panicking and tried to make himself grab his crossbow but he couldn't control his movements, it was although he was watching something that had already happened. A man with long-ish brown hair and a scruffy beard was jumping around like a mad man. His name tag said Jaffar_

_"Fuckin'...What the fuckin'. Fuck. Who the fuck fucked this fucking... How did you two fucking fucks..." The man, Jaffar, paused, looking crazed before doing an odd little hop as he yelled out a final, "Fuck!"_

_The other man with shorter light brown hair chuckled. "Well, that certainly illustrates the diversity of the word." Daryl felt himself laugh, even though he thought the comment was amusing he tried to stop, but he couldn't fight the laughter, it was as if he was a different person._

_The scene changed and Daryl found himself in a room full of guns and various other weapons. He was with the man with short light brown hair again, this time Jaffar was nowhere to be seen. Daryl was holding a large gun in his hands and fiddling around with it. _

_"Do you know what we need, man? Some rope." The guy said. _

_Daryl couldn't prevent the words coming out his mouth. "Absolutely. What are ya, insane?" What surprised him most was that he had the same Irish accent as the light brown haired guy._

_"No, I ain't. Charlie Bronson's always got rope." _

_"What?" Daryl asked._

_"Yeah. He's got a lot of rope strapped around him in the movies, and they always end up using it." The person said. _

_"You've lost it, haven't ya?" Daryl asked him._

_"No, I'm serious." The man said, seriously. _

_"Me too. That's stupid. Name one thing you gonna need a rope for." He said while packing various items into a bag. _

_"You don't fuckin' know what you're gonna need it for. They just always need it." The guy said._

_"What's this 'they' shit? This isn't a movie." Daryl told the guy as he dumped his bag and moved to a large gun that he knew they'd never fit in the bag. _

_"Oh, right." The guy said and turned to take a large knife out of Daryl's bag. "Is that right, Rambo?"_

_Daryl aimed the gun at the guy before straightening up and snorting."All right. Get your stupid fuckin' rope."_

_"I'll get my stupid rope. I'll get it." The guy moved to take a rope off of the wall by the door. This is a rope right here."_

Daryl sat bolt upright. The dream had confused him and unnerved him. Why had he been collecting guns with an unknown man, and why the hell had he been in a room full of dead people. He rubbed his eyes furiously and lay back down against the hard floor. It didn't matter how much he though about it, none of it was making any sense. The bearded one, Jaffar had been American, but Daryl had never met him before, he was pretty sure he would have remembered a man who cursed that much. Then there was the light brown haired guy whose name hadn't been mentioned. The Irish one. Daryl frowned, he'd been Irish in his dream too, maybe it wasn't him...But then, who could it have been?

He shrugged the blanket off of himself and stood up, the pale light that filtered into the prison told him that it was early morning, chances were the others would already be awake, Lil' Ass Kicker was loud when she wanted to be, and so far Daryl had proved to be the only one who would wake at the slightest noise, unless it was the hungry cries of a baby. He would snore through that as though he was the only one in the whole prison. The first morning that the kid had woken everyone, they'd all panicked that Daryl had been bitten when he didn't wake up. They'd been quite embarrassed to find Daryl flat out sleeping and snoring and even drooling, not that Daryl would admit that or let them mention it. It was the first time that Daryl almost carried through on his threat to put an arrow into each of their sorry asses.

As he'd suspected, everyone was sitting in the cafeteria eating breakfast. His nose scrunched up at the sight of the porridge, the prison had been well stocked up on that and they'd been living on it for a while, everyone was sick of it now, but they knew better than to say anything, after all, it was better to have disgusting food than to have no food at all.

"You alright, Daryl?" Glenn asked.

"Why wouldn' I be?" He asked, eyes narrowed.

"You were talking about some weird shit in your sleep earlier."

Daryl mentally swore, but didn't let his face show that he'd understood. "Mmm." He said, noncommittally.

"You were going on about Jaffar and a _stupid fuckin' rope." _Glenn mimicked, he even did a bad Irish accent.

"It was fucked up, I have no idea what was goin' on." Daryl said. Normally he wouldn't say anything at all, but part of him was curious to know if anything similar had ever happened to them. Maybe one of them would know what was going on in his head.

"You spoke with a real Irish accent." Hershel said. "It was as though you were born with it."

"But I wasn't." Daryl frowned. "My brother is Merle."

"You've always said that, but you've never mentioned your parents. Who were they?" Rick asked.

"They were...fuck," Daryl cursed, throwing his porridge across the room. "I can't remember."

"You can't remember?" Hershel frowned.

"Did I stutter?" Daryl asked coldly.

"Reminds me of the time Nilly threw Maggie and she lost all her memories." Beth said. "They started coming back to her after a week."

"That sound like a load of bull-"

"It's entirely possible." Hershel cut Daryl off with a calculating look.

* * *

_AN_

_I do not own The Boondock Saints or The Walking Dead. _


	2. Chapter 2

Daryl stood there, breathing heavily as he looked at them all in disbelief. "Look," he said. "Y'all have been spending too much time together. You're insane!"

"Daryl, just think about this logically." Rick said.

"Logically? Logically! You're talking shit, telling me I ain't who I am. I ain't never had a head inj'ry or nothin'." Daryl growled.

"Well, that's not true Andrea did shoot you in the head." Glenn muttered, before quailing under Daryl's glare. "But, the bullet only grazed you, that hardly counts as a head injury."

"My pa an' I weren't close and my ma left when I wasn' even crawlin'," Daryl muttered. "It's normal t'forget them when all this shit is goin' on around us."

"My old man died when I was seven years old, but I can remember he was called William, most people called him Bill though." Axel said.

Daryl's eyes narrowed. "Did anyone ask fer your opinion?" He snarled at Axel.

"Daryl calm down." Rick said trying to placate the riled up man.

"Calm down?" Daryl shouted. "Calm down? I ain't gonna wait here while you try an' pick apart my life."

He gripped his crossbow tightly and stormed away from the cafeteria and out of the prison until he was outside. The ground was barely damp anymore, the blistering sun had returned and the water was visibly evaporating away. He paused scanning the wire fence automatically for gaps or weak spots, it was a learned behaviour now, safety was one of the most important things for them, especially with a new born baby in their midst. A few walkers were clawing at the fence, their milky eyes glued on him. He snorted at their pathetic moans, at least he wasn't the only who didn't know who he was.

"Fuck, you're losing it, Dixon." He muttered, he turned away from the walkers and climbed to the platform of the guard tower. There wasn't much protection from the stifling humidity but the shade from the sunlight was a small relief, he sat down, his feet sticking out over the side of the floor of the tower, he placed his crossbow at his side and relaxed. The walkers wouldn't be able to climb up the tower even if there was a breach in the fence, the only thing that could interrupt him would be one of the group members.

Daryl sat there for a long time, the heat and humidity left him exhausted even though he hadn't done much. It was hotter than it had been in a very long time, the storm seemed long gone and unlikely to return anytime soon. He let his eyes close, and breathed slowly, he drifted off peacefully.

_He was sitting at a small round table, alcohol and weapons littered it. Next to him was the rope guy, and across from him was Jaffar. _

_"Anybody _you _think is evil?" Jaffar asked. _

_"Aye." The rope-guy said._

_"Don't you think that's a little weird, a little psycho?" Jaffar asked. _

_"D'you know what I think is psycho, Roc?" Rope-guy asked. Roc? Maybe Jaffar had a nickname, or maybe it was an Irish way to talk to someone, Daryl was confused either way. "It's decent men with loving families. They go home every day after work and they turn on the news. You know what they see? They see rapists, and muderers and child molesters. They're all getting out of prison." _

_"Mafiosos." Daryl said, shooting an empty gun. "Gettin' caught with twenty kilos. Gettin' out on bail the same fuckin' day." He snapped his fingers angrily. _

_"And everywhere, everyone thinks the same thing: that someone should just go kill those motherfuckers." Rope-guy said. Daryl was shocked at the words but he couldn't deny that he agreed with what was being said._

_"Kill 'em all. Admit it. Even you've thought about it." Daryl said, looking at Jaffar and leaning towards him slightly. _

_"You guys should be in every major city. This is some heavy shit. This is, like, Lone Ranger heavy, man." Jaffar said. Then he suddenly began to shout. "Fuck it! There's so much shit that it pisses me off! You guys should recruit, 'cause I'm sick and fucking tired of walking down the street, waiting for one of these crack-piping, ass-wiping, motherless lowlifes to get me!"_

_"Hallelujah, Jaffar." Daryl said. Roc? Jaffar? This was all beyond confusing._

_"So, like, you're not just talking about mob guys, right? You're talking about pimps and drug dealers and all that shit, right?" Jaffar/Roc asked._

_"Oh, yeah." Rope-guy muttered._

_"Fuck. You guys could do this every goddamn day!" Jaffar/Roc said. Daryl felt uneasy, he had understood the gist of the conversation and he wasn't sure what he thought of it, by the sound of things, him and rope-guy had a plan to kill off all the 'bad guys'._

_"We're sorta like seven eleven. We're not always doing business, but we're always open." Daryl said._

_"Mmmm." Rope-guy hummed. "That is nicely put."_

_"Thank you very much." Daryl smirked as he took a puff of the cigarette in his hand. _

_They spent hours talking, drinking, smoking and messing around with knives and guns, even though it was only a dream, Daryl felt really comfortable with the two men whose names were still a question mark. The one thing that unnerved him was the fact that they's been talking about murdering people and he hadn't felt any remorse about killing off the 'mafiosos'. _

Daryl was jerked awake by the familiar clinking of the gate being opened, he grabbed his crossbow and held it up, it was only Glenn and Maggie, leaving to go off on a run. He relaxed and let his crossbow lower. The dream was lingering in his mind, trying to fight for his attention, but he tried to lock it away. After all, how could he let the others know that he was a possible mass murderer? Rick was a police officer, Hershel had a strong sense of what was 'right', there was children and women. They'd have him locked up in a cell faster than he could say "Aequitas", although why he would say that and what it meant was beyond him. It was tattooed on his hand, but he couldn't remember getting the tattoo. There was a lot of things he couldn't remember. He was just glad that they hadn't seen the tattoo on his back, he couldn't explain that one.

* * *

_I don't own TWD or Boondock Saints _

_There is going to be more time before the prison-woodbury war in this story, so this isn't the run where Glenn and Maggie get abducted, sorry._


End file.
